The Longest Winter
by adadzio
Summary: It was their duty, and none of them would abandon their duty, not in a thousand painful winters. In reckless fantasy and innocent dreams, House Baratheon somehow finds closure—and unlikely queens bring hope to the Seven Kingdoms. [Disturbing themes. Bittersweet angst.]


**I. Justin**

* * *

" _Compare me to the sea, drown in poetry…"_

Her voice rang pure, but the girl was scarred, and sullen, and far from beautiful. Ser Justin Massey doubted anyone would compare her to the sea, not even her intended, other than to say she was as solemn as the waves.

Shireen turned and considered the knights in her host. "We'll await approval from the Queen at the Wall," she said simply, then turned back to share her dreams with the stormy waters.

The king's men shifted in displeasure, but she was her father's daughter. She had known horrors her whole life, many more these past years, and still there was a quiet strength in her command.

 _A girl like her is good for the people,_ some insisted. _This marriage will bind Stark and Baratheon forever as one, uniting all the honorable houses left in Westeros._

But the snows pushed strong, far beyond the Stormlands these days, and they were bitter — so bitter and cold. Even if Ser Davos could bring Rickon safely from Skagos, most men thought it a wasted effort.

Truth be told, Ser Justin thought anything better than to be rotting still in the North. Those ghosts haunted him as if they had traveled hand-in-hand with the cruel winter.

 _Tell me now, Sire,_ his own voice echoed in the damp wind. _Tell me what must be done, how I must serve._

He remembered the king clutching a crimson ribbon. It had been a queer sight. _Mine only child,_ were his words.

An icy gust whispered over the sea. _So it shall be._

He had little faith these days — most of the queen's men had faltered without their queen. There were some who stayed true to R'hllor, but not he. The skies were black, devoid of any assurance of gods or light. His only god now was duty.

 _I'll still make Asha my wife,_ he dreamed absently. One day he could return to bold, ironborn Asha.

But first Justin could not forget his promise, not in this darkest of winters. And so he smiled as was his nature, and he bowed to the young woman with greyscale, and the others followed his lead.

* * *

 **II. Stannis,** _years earlier_

* * *

 _Tell her,_ his mind hissed rebelliously. _Tell her now, before you lose her attention to her fires._

Instead Stannis Baratheon watched his red priestess with mild curiosity. At present she was pretending to do something with her powders, but he concluded that she was just moving objects from one side of the room to the other. He lingered in the doorway with a sour look.

"Are you certain you'd not like water, your Grace?" she asked over her shoulder. "I know you find my chambers unbearable."

It was decidedly discomfiting, seeing her so restless. "No."

"We'll send for some lemons, it will be most invigorating..."

 _Saucy as a kitchen wench,_ he thought dryly. Stannis continued standing awkwardly in the doorframe. "You are avoiding me, my lady."

Melisandre hesitated—in whatever she was doing—for the briefest moment. She lifted a copper eyebrow at him. "Forgive me, my king. I assumed you had said everything you came to say."

 _Everything and nothing._ "You have better things to do now, is that it?"

She finally ceased her activity completely. "Certainly not," she contested. "I did not mean to offend your Grace."

"It is not only tonight. You've been acting this way for days now." He sternly held up a hand when she began to protest. "Do not deny it. I'll not leave this room until you tell me what distresses you."

Melisandre's brow furrowed, and for some odd reason he found the rare sight endearing. Her voice was exceedingly calm. "I hide nothing from you. I hope you know that, Sire?" His expression remained stoic. She sighed very quietly. "But I admit, there is a matter weighing on my mind. Will you sit?"

 _That is not a good sign_ , he mused, but he took his seat near the fire all the same. She seated herself across from him, if only to put him at ease. His eyes scrutinized her expectantly.

"Your northern campaign," she started.

"We leave in a fortnight."

"Yes…" A pause. "Then I'll bid you smooth victory and the Lord's blessing," she said simply.

Stannis watched her for a moment, slowly processing the implication of her words. "You've seen something in your flames?"

She tilted her head slightly. "Nothing new," she admitted. "I only say these words as a warning of…our farewell."

The king's chair scraped against the wooden floor as he stood abruptly. "And what cause have we for a farewell? Found a better _champion_ , have you?" he accused.

Her rise from the chair was much more graceful, deliberate. "Never in a thousand winters, Sire. But I will better serve you from here."

Stannis snorted. "Here? You think to stay at _Castle Black?_ What would possess you to think I'd permit that?"

The fire crackled between them, and the air was pregnant with several moments of tension. Finally, "Your Grace. I _am_ staying here, regardless of whether or not you permit—"

"Like seven bloody hells, you are," he grit out, stalking toward her. "Neither my wife nor daughter would live here among rapists and thieves. It is no place for a woman."

"And a battle tent is?"

Stannis narrowed his eyes at her defiant words. "Bored of battle, are you? Yet you still nag at me about the Blackwater?" She opened her mouth to do just that, but he cut her off. "You wish to stay at the Wall? Fine. But it will be with the Queen and Princess. You'll meet with them when they ride for the Nightfort; make your preparations. I'll hear no more of this nonsense." With that he turned on his heel to depart, footsteps falling angrily against the planks of the floor.

Melisandre pushed a strand of copper hair out of her face, moving around the fire to catch his arm boldly. "My king," she said firmly.

His eyebrows rose as he considered the warm hand on his arm. "Was my command unclear?"

"Are you truly upset that I am staying at this castle? Or upset that I am staying behind in the first place?"

"Both," he snapped. His priestess's eyes softened at the confession.

"Oh, my king…you know I would be honored to be at your side." For some reason that infuriated him.

"It's not a matter of sentiment." _Isn't it?_ He finally jerked his arm out of her grasp, ignoring the voice of his own foolish heart, as he always did. "It's about having my advisors with me when I march south."

Melisandre shook her head woefully. "I understand. But trust me, your Grace, I must stay here. My power is stronger since coming to Castle Black. We must act boldly now, or all hope is lost. The Lord has led me to this place for a reason."

"And just how do you expect to serve our cause from here? How can you be my priestess with these men leering at you—"

 _You fool._ He caught himself then, but it was too late _._ She was staring at him as if he were a pitiful boy.

 _You may as well say it now._

* * *

 **III. Davos**

* * *

Her true title was Queen in the North.

 _A liberated reign,_ they called it.

Ser Davos called it treason.

 _Tell her so._

Yet he could not, not when she was weeping with her brother in the white courtyard. Even then she carried herself like a queen, regal and tall, neat red braids framing her high cheekbones. And Sansa Stark was as beautiful as any queen in a lover's song, made even more beautiful by her return to Winterfell.

 _Aye, she's home. A blessed feeling, to be sure._

Davos wondered longingly about his own home and remaining sons. He thought of Devan most especially, his boy freezing at the Wall under the Red Woman's service. He wondered if he would ever see him again, and he wondered if he would survive to reunite with sad, sweet Shireen, too.

Sansa and Rickon had evidently finished with their initial reunion. The Lady turned to Davos with those shining Tully eyes, white collar framing her face like a radiant painting. "I am most grateful, ser, as Lord Manderly has surely told you. Lord Snow is in agreement from his command at Castle Black. The North shall remain loyal to the true lineage of House Baratheon."

 _A local queen of sorts, yet subject to the one true crown._ He could tolerate that. Besides, the North was better left to its own people, its own ways.

 _Its own gods,_ he added, a silent, useless accusation at that priestess who'd bewitched his king.

It was too late for grudges. He had a duty, and he'd not forget it now.

"My lady," Davos tilted his head at Sansa, "I am glad to see the North back in honorable hands." He was glad to see Roose Bolton's head on a spike, too, rotting high above the stone castle walls. But his heart despaired with every beat when he remembered the cost.

The day the news had reached him in White Harbor, he'd taken another vow _. I swear it by the Seven,_ he told the silent grey sky, _I do love you. And I'll serve you, only you, until the end of my days. Through the longest winter._

It hurt too much to dwell upon, so Davos turned his attention to young Rickon for a moment. He was a handsome lad, sturdy and assured, and he was serving Sansa lemon cakes as if it were the most gallant task in the world.

 _He could be good for her. Kind to her._

Ser Davos felt another pang in his chest when he dared to dream of the spring that could emerge from this bitter winter.

 _Say it now._

He took a deep breath. "You must pardon that this proposal comes so soon after finding your kin again, my lady."

Both the Stark children looked warily at the Onion Knight.

"There is a possibility for marriage," he said.

* * *

 **IV. Melisandre,** _years earlier_

* * *

She blinked, unsure of what else to do.

Orange flames leapt into the darkening air, casting the first shadows of the night. They seemed to taunt the king and the priestess.

Her fingers eventually found his arm. "Stannis," she said softly. "Please listen to me." The king's face remained hard, but he did not move away. "I can protect myself from the greatest of these men. You've seen my abilities for yourself." Her hand ran soothingly down his forearm. "In any case the Lord Commander will ensure—"

"Snow is hated by his men," Stannis interrupted. "He is a fine boy, I admit it, but do not count on him for defense. You've made yourself quite comfortable here, but these wretches have not seen a woman in ages, do you understand? They'll stop at nothing if they want you."

Melisandre flushed at his plain words, her scarlet stare hard with indignation.

"And what of you, my king? Will you stop at nothing to have what you want? Drag me away by force?" She could hear him grinding his teeth in mounting fury. "I thought not," she said coldly, withdrawing her touch to find refuge in her fires.

"You presumptuous woman," he hissed. She was whirled back around by an iron grip on her waist. The kiss that followed was brutal, punishing, but she did not mind. They could fight about it, even fuck over it, but the reality would never change. She had to remain, and he had to leave, no matter what Stannis argued otherwise. It was their duty, and neither of them would abandon their duty, not in a thousand painful winters.

For now, the physical pain of their union was a welcome distraction. The priestess moaned as his hands tangled fiercely in her hair. "Do not play me for a fool, Melisandre." His voice was hoarse against her ear.

"I don't know what you are talk—"

" _Quiet_ , woman. You've had a vision you are not telling me. Do not deny it."

 _Tell him…_ "I will deny it," she argued instead, her face still only inches from his. "I withhold nothing from you." _Tell him now._

"You lie to your rightful king!"

Melisandre could take no more of his insecurity. "Stubborn man!" she hissed before claiming his lips once again. He tried to pull away, but she wrenched him back by the arms. Her strength surprised him. "No more of this," she commanded in between kisses. "Let us not remember our last days together by quarrels."

Her hands tugged sharply at his clothing, and he did not object, but he was not a patient man. Before she could shrug out of her own gown, he hoisted her into his arms. She wrapped her legs helpfully around his waist, allowing the fabric to bunch up around her hips instead. "You are wrong," he growled, pushing her back against the cold stone of her chamber wall. "You said yourself, I am stubborn. I'll stop at nothing to get what I want. As you'll well learn."

"And what do you want?" she demanded. Her arms tightened about his neck as he tugged at the laces of his breeches with his free hand.

"The same as the degenerates at this castle." With that he lifted her slightly and brought her back down onto his bare flesh.

"Ah," she sang out in surprise, rolling her hips against his. "And that is…"

"You."

Melisandre said nothing, feeling slightly dazed as she was shoved against the wall in time to his thrusts. "You want my body," she clarified, turning her head away from him to stare at the fire.

"Of course I bloody do." He gripped her hips roughly. "Surely you can feel that, my lady."

The shadows of the room masked her troubled gaze from him. "However will you pass the nights without me?" she mused.

He scoffed, "Do not think _that_ is the issue."

 _No, of course not. Stannis Baratheon would admit to make use of her, but not that he was made of flesh._ "Then what is?" she snapped, pushing against his chest so hard that he ceased his movement.

Stannis's eyes narrowed, puzzled by her offense. His tone was blunt, as ever. "I need _you._ Not what's between your thighs."

The answer surprised her. "How do you mean?"

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were playing coy." He carried her to the bed to relieve his arms from their strain. Their bodies remained connected as he laid her on the edge and held her waist firmly. "You see that men want you, but you're too blind to see they respect your intelligence as well? Your faith? Your conviction?" She opened her mouth, astonished by his words, but he began thrusting into her again, and all she could manage was a strangled moan.

Something in his words had changed the air, however. For once their lovemaking was not rough, nor was it unfeeling. There was something more to it than just a loss of physical control. A hint of tenderness, almost, if she dared to hope. Usually he avoided her gaze when they were together, out of embarrassment or modesty, but now she had the privilege to look into his eyes as they were connected so intimately.

"You know what they say about you," he muttered, "you _must_ know."

Of course she did. After years on Dragonstone with him she'd been gifted many colorful titles. Melisandre opened her mouth again, but her tone was entirely wary. "Some things are more acceptable to be repeated than others, your Grace."

Stannis snorted at her tact but said nothing. He only pushed into her insistently, and she arched her back. The night had fallen swiftly, and shadows fell dark and heavy on them as they coupled illicitly in her chamber. She clutched the linens on either side of her head, strands of fiery hair tangled between her fingers. When he finally tensed inside her she sighed, and when he leaned down to kiss her, she fell apart weeping. Stannis pulled back, ill at ease with her sudden emotion. "Did I hurt you?"

 _Tell him._ "No."

There were many things to be said, but neither had the courage at that moment to confront them. To do so would be pushing duty aside for sentiment, and that would be senseless. "No," she repeated.

* * *

 **V.** **Selyse**

* * *

She read the scroll again, pale hands shaking as the words settled into her brittle bones like poison.

Once she had hoped for a simple, sunny life. A castle where she might chase the stars in the sky. A gentle lord to call husband. She fantasized often of bearing him sons, healthy boys who wouldn't inherit her prominent ears or sharp voice.

It was the silly dream of a silly Florent girl.

By what cruel joke had she married a man more severe than she?

She saw no stars, only ghosts in the night now, with cold, ominous winter all around her. _The night is dark and full of terrors, and swords alone cannot hold this darkness back._

Those words taunted her, but not as much as the words on that parchment.

 _Tell him these wishes are reckless,_ her heart demanded with frantic pounding.

She had been wrong, the red priestess had been wrong. This treason would not make things right.

 _Tell him so,_ her mind hissed again.

Yet she could not. She had never truly been a wife, but she was still mother to the true heir of the Seven Kingdoms.

 _It is my duty,_ she took a shuddering breath, _and I'll not abandon my duty, not if they rack me to within an inch of my life._

"It will be done," she wrote back with a weary hand, "or I will die in the attempt."

* * *

 **VI. Melisandre,** _the year before_

* * *

The ancient bed creaked as they both collapsed upon the sheets. Neither spoke for a very long while, listening only to the howling wind outside. When the king finally moved to dress himself, Melisandre curled further into the bed, staring resolutely at the fire. She expected him to sulk away then, as he usually did, but felt his gaze on her instead.

"Have you everything you came for?" she asked politely. It was an empty echo of her words from earlier in the evening. Stannis frowned, then sat dully on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands. The air was heavy with the understanding that they would likely never meet again after the fortnight.

"Melisandre, I—" he cleared his throat painfully. "I am grateful for your counsel."

When he did not continue, she sat up expectantly, half-clothed and all. She knew better than to assume he was forcing small talk, especially after being intimate. Normally at this point in the night he would be bolting back to his chamber to scrub the shame from his flesh. "I strive to serve you well, your Grace."

"Yes, yes," he brushed aside her pleasantries. Then, "Sit here." She obeyed, wishing all the while to lock herself in her room with nothing but her flames and her tears. She was terrifying to many men, she knew, but she was still human. _For the most part._

"Jon Snow will receive reports," he said dully, "you will be informed of my progress as is appropriate."

 _Ah. So he had finally yielded to her plans._ "Yes, your Grace."

"I am assigning a dozen men into your service. They'll negotiate with the Lord Commander to ensure you have what you need."

This seemed excessive to Melisandre—as an advisor to the king—but she did not complain. "Thank you." _Perhaps I can convince him to leave me Devan, to spare him from battle, for Davos's sake..._

There was a brief silence. "It would seem I am not stubborn enough to get what I want, after all," he remarked wryly.

Melisandre granted him a sad smile. "You'll not have me or Ser Davos. But you will have others, your Grace. Queen's men, even, to advise you."

Stannis grunted in disdain. Those words meant little when he valued only her and the Onion Knight's counsel, cherished only their company. "What good are queen's men with no queen?"

Her red lips curled up again. "They are dependable men, Sire. Faithful to one god, one king."

"And one queen," he said quietly. She tilted her head in acknowledgement of the Queen Selyse, but after a moment she realized he was watching her pointedly. "You know what they say about you," he insisted.

* * *

 **VII. Patchface**

* * *

"Patches," she said, "I had bad dreams. They were coming to eat me."

 _Oh, that must be it! I will carve them out of you, the dragons, the scales too, and we will bring many dead to life._

"Do not cry, little princess, it won't hurt much."

Her screams were like the waves that had once washed over his own weak body.

 _Oh, oh, oh. Tell her!_ "We will march into the sea and out again. Under the waves we will ride seahorses, and mermaids will blow seashells to announce our coming."

He rambled to her, _oh_ , he had to make her understand, even as men in cold armor dragged him away.

"His lips are red with blood," the Red Woman cried. "Protect her, on your life."

 _Oh, I know, I did a bad thing, I know, I know..._

"Bind him to the pyre."

 _I know; don't you? I was killed once before, drowned, and it was always summer under the sea._

"The greyscale!" Lady Red's voice turned desperate. "Death, he raises! He is a prophet of the Great Other!"

It was not like summer this time. The cold winds rose, and the sun fell hard and fast from the sky, and the air stung like a thousand icy daggers.

"Don't let him touch anyone! Do it now!"

A man in black raised a fiery sword. The flames were white-hot, and yet they were cooler than even the waves.

 _Oh, little princess, do not weep for your fool!_

He dreamed of being under the sea again, where smoke rose in bubbles, and flames burned green and blue and black.

 _I know, I know, oh, oh, oh..._

* * *

 **VIII. Melisandre,** _the year before_

* * *

The fire seemed to be filling the air, choking them both.

The priestess shook her head, slightly panicked. "It's not true," was all she could say.

Stannis turned to regard her, still seated on the edge of the bed in her disheveled silks. "I'm not angry. I overhear these things, same as you, my lady. No need to deny them. "

"They serve your rightful queen," she insisted forcefully, "I have never…would _never_ shame her with such treasonous words. You must know that, Sire."

"I know it," he said dryly, "I said I am not angry. They're the words of others."

"And they are wrong," she said icily, standing and marching toward the fire.

His deep laugh came as another shock, and she spun around in irritation. "I've never seen a woman so affronted by the thought of that title," he explained.

"If I aspired to such heights," she spat back, "I would not have targeted Stannis Baratheon."

This amused him further. "My brother, perhaps," he agreed. She rolled her eyes at the thought of seducing Robert, turning back to the flames. _Better to have remained a slave…_

Her contemplation was short-lived, however. She started at the feel of the king's large hands snaking about her waist. "Melisandre," he spoke, "those queen's men, even the common people, they only say what they observe to be true."

She again shook her head, demurring, "They may believe their own lie, but it is still treachery."

"And who defines treachery?" _Was it a trick question?_ Stannis' speech was often candid to the point of confusion.

"You."

Evidently it was no trick. His palms splayed over her stomach to press her back against his chest. "Then listen well: it is no treason in here."

Melisandre turned to look him in the eyes. "Your words alarm me, my king."

Stannis clenched his jaw, hands tightening unconsciously on her waist. She knew he was struggling to get the words out, but he could not turn back now. "We part in a fortnight, I have agreed to that much. My men will be disappointed. They won't have their queen with them as they had hoped." At his wry choice of words, she began to protest anew. Her voice died, however, when his fingers tilted her chin up firmly. "They are not wrong," he said simply. "They must make do with their queen at the Wall. As must I."

She felt ill and elated all at once. "Stannis—"

"You are my true queen, and you know it," he interjected. "Those words will not leave this room, not until I command it. You had best remember that. But everyone knows, Melisandre, and the time has come for us to be forthright with each other." That much she agreed with, but he was not finished. "You'll conduct yourself as such when I am gone, in deed and composure. Represent my interests here when my wife has departed again. Men will follow you, they will listen to your voice, as they already do."

Melisandre wanted to argue bitterly. _This is not my duty, not my concern, not while death marches on the Wall._ At the same time her heart felt lighter than it had in ages. It was a forbidden dream made true. _My king…he who trusted me, he who respected me..._ She wanted to kiss him then.

Stannis would appreciate neither dissent nor sentiment, so she nodded instead. Another minute passed as the fire illuminated their figures. _Tell him,_ her heart whispered. _Tell him now._ Those vulnerable words were caught in her throat, however. She settled for a simpler fantasy.

"Stay with me tonight, my king."

* * *

 **IX. Shireen**

* * *

 _He has bright eyes,_ she thought, heart pounding fast.

Lord Rickon stood strong, even at his young age. _I'm painting the sky for you and me,_ his gaze seemed to say. The skies were very dark now, as they had been for years, but his eyes were a promise of distant spring. He had unruly auburn hair to match his sister's.

"My lord," she breathed. "It is fortunate to see an heir of Winterfell in good health."

"Your Grace," he knelt, and his movements were as determined as those of a grown man. When she indicated he rise with a slender hand, he paused to study her openly.

 _He recoils at my scars, old and new._

Her heart fell further when she saw Ser Davos flinch out of the corner of her eye. _He is father to me, having lost his own sons; he cannot bear to see my pain._

She glanced over to him, searching his eyes for some kind of answer. _And what now, dear Onion Knight? I need you to tell me how to be._

Yet Rickon startled her with that firm voice, never wavering. "Your Grace will forgive the way I stare."

"And how?" she asked warily. _Tell me, say the word, and I'll dream no further..._

An errant curl brushed his brow. "So deep and blue are your eyes, I thought I must have drowned in the sea."

* * *

 **X. Stannis,** _years earlier_

* * *

Those precious days couldn't last forever. Stannis should have let her cling to her delusion, but as it were, it was shattered the night before he departed from the Wall.

Her thighs were fire against his hands; he swore he could feel them burning even through his cold armor. She'd walked into his chamber moments after it had come fresh from the armory at Castle Black. The steel had grown too loose as of late, and he'd been checking the new fit on his form. _Gaunt and lanky_ , he grimaced self-deprecatingly. Then he'd caught the priestess looking at him like some tavern girl— _though gods knew why_ —and all duty was forgotten.

"What have you done to me, woman?" he demanded, pulling Melisandre roughly onto the edge on his table. He was like a man gone mad.

"I've done nothing…" she gasped as his fingers found their target between her legs.

"I am a king," he growled, sinking to the stone floor before her. "I am a king, yet slave to the pleasure of a mere priestess. What sorcery, which spell brings me to my knees?"

Melisandre screwed her eyes shut when his mouth replaced his fingers. "None," she moaned breathlessly, "you knelt of your own free will, my king, and long ago..."

 _She speaks true, and she's no mere priestess,_ his mind hissed. He was too far gone to deny it. His lips only worshipped her, just as _he_ worshipped her, just as he always had. When she was bucking her hips against his face he abruptly pulled away and straightened up. In the next moment he was bent over her seated form, desperate to utterly consume her. Melisandre's hands darted inside his clothing like dancing flames; burning him, liberating him. She tasted her own desire on his lips, even as his continued attentions on her lower body wrought exquisite cries from her throat. It was a kind of prayer — the slow, torturous stroke of his fingers within her, a carnal devotion.

In a reckless moment of fantasy he envisioned his Onion Knight there as well, strong brown eyes next to those startling scarlet ones, the three of them freeing each other, drowning in each other. _Yes,_ he thought when she threw her head back, gasping into his neck. " _Yes, my love…"_

He didn't realize he had said the words aloud until he caught sight of her stunned eyes. His stomach dropped, but he was still in a frenzied state, so he avoided her gaze to join his body with hers. "Stannis…" she cried at the union, and it was a question and an answer all at once. He swallowed her moans and all her inquiring words, because he was kissing her and fucking her for quite possibly the last time, and he didn't care to explain himself just then. _You'll never see her again,_ that forbidden, senseless part of him insisted, _just say it._ He screwed his eyes shut.

"When I return I will make you my wife."

Melisandre squinted at him between thrusts. "Have you been drinking?"

"Under your red god we will marry, with fire and vows, a witness…a true ceremony, I swear it…"

Her eyes were like jaded rubies. "Your lemon water was too strong today."

Stannis silenced the jape with a kiss. "When I am gone you may hear that I am dead," he continued, even as she pushed against him frantically. "And it may even be true."

Melisandre's eyebrows knit together through her pleasure. "The Lord's champion will never fall," she panted.

 _Are you still blind, my red shadow?_ _Don't you see?_

"Perhaps not," he finally agreed, a sad smile ghosting his lips. _She'll not admit it until she sees my dead body, and then she'll want to flee my cause entirely._ "But you must remember your promise to me. Serve my house when I am gone." They both knew he didn't mean his departure from the Wall.

She obliged him all the same. "I promise," she murmured, irate at the sorrow now coloring her pleasure. He pressed his forehead against hers. Oddly enough, he felt little shame when their tears mingled together.

His own oath was hoarse. "You'll want for nothing, Melisandre."

She shook her head stubbornly. "Don't…"

And so he did not. _This last time shouldn't be on a table like a pair of barbaric animals,_ he decided. She clung to him as he carried her to the bed, and there they reached their pleasure together. It was bitter, more of a lamentation than an ecstasy, and still he treasured the salt of her tears, binding his own heart with the copper of her hair. Only then did the ice succumb to the fire.

 _Tell her._

"Woman," he sighed, "I do love you."

* * *

 **XI. Melisandre**

* * *

The wind was frigid and strong, but she held her head high. Her hair was fire, and her heart was flame, and she was a queen.

When her fingers found his, he glanced questioningly down. Recognition dawned upon his face at the thin crimson silk she'd slipped into his hand. He often saw her bind her wrists with the same strands whilst she prayed. _This world isn't enough for me,_ she would say. _Sometimes I need a reminder of my bondage._

It was a token, now, as well as a promise.

"The flames will show you the way," she advised, "and they will link you to me."

"Through a thousand winters," Stannis agreed. He did not look away from the red of her eyes.

"You had best still have it when you return to me, my king."

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and the shadows of her world abated slightly. When the words fell from his lips, she decided she would cherish them forever, even if they would haunt her.

"As you command, my queen, so it shall be."

When he did return to the Wall after so many grey moons, she found the ribbon still curled tightly between his fingers, brighter red than the blood staining his armor. She knew that Jon Snow—reborn as ethereal and silver as his wolf—was watching from a distance. Azor Ahai had been found, the champion who'd been her duty all along. _Ours is a war for life,_ she reminded herself, _and should we fail the world dies with us._ But she had stumbled somehow along the way, and even now she was promised to a mortal man — for better or worse.

"I have not forgotten," she assured the king. Her finger bore a ribbon to match his own.

Justin Massey had not forgotten either. He'd returned with his sellswords from Braavos, good on his vow to Stannis, and they were fighting with every ounce of iron and flame to unite Westeros under Shireen. They pushed south from victory at Winterfell, but winter was fast on their trail—though not nearly as deadly as at the Wall. Ravens reached Castle Black with both victorious and dark words. Their progress was strong, and that kind, intelligent girl was gathering the support of more and more influential houses, but Selyse hadn't survived the wintry march from the Nightfort.

The remaining queen's men—even the king's men—looked to the red priestess now. _Men will follow you, they will listen to your voice,_ Stannis had said. It was then she realized that he had not withheld any of his wishes from his knights, no matter how difficult.

 _Queen Regent Melisandre,_ they wrote from the Stormlands:

 _Shall we abandon this campaign while the long winter ravages the land? It may be wiser to secure her Grace at Storm's End, for now._

Her and Lord Snow's bitter struggle against the army of the dead had taught her otherwise. The Great Other would use any weapon at his disposal. And so she wrote:

 _I will not delude you about our situation in the North, sers. The battle has begun. The sand is running in the glass more quickly now, and man's hour on earth is almost done. Spring will triumph, brave servants of light, but not for a thousand black nights._

She'd paused then.

 _We cannot set our eyes on simple politics any longer, my lords, and it may well be the Iron Throne is destroyed in this winter._

 _It matters not. These little wars are no more than a scuffle of children. And still I ask you push forward with our young Queen, so she might unite the Kingdoms through her righteousness. In her we'll find true men to join our forces. Men whose hearts are fire. Only then shall the dawn break the long night._

 _Such is my command. You will secure Queen Shireen in King's Landing, and no place else. Or you will die in the attempt._

Her king was not there; only she spoke in his stead now, and it was with breathtaking trust she'd been granted the honor. Melisandre thought long and hard what he would want for his daughter.

 _As for the betrothal, there can be no greater match. Lord Rickon is a son of Eddard Stark. As such he'll surely prove virtuous. If the Queen is flowered and consenting as you say, arrange the marriage with all haste. The Lord Commander Snow sends his blessing upon the union, as does the Lady Sansa, Wardeness of the North and guardian to Lord Rickon Stark._

She scrawled a last-minute note beneath the graceful crimson ink.

 _If you please, Ser Davos Seaworth shall have my own trusted steward, in gratitude for his service to House Baratheon. I believe he will find Devan most handsome and matured._

The Lord Commander, for his part, had negotiated with his northern allies and mountain clans to continue backing House Baratheon, sending any provisions and forces that could be spared from the effort against the wights. After all, the Stark banner flew proud above Winterfell again, and Jon was indebted to Stannis for it.

And so men marched in the South, and others battled at the Wall. Visions of a three-headed dragon crashed over Melisandre like red waves, an insistent tide growing stronger. They heard rumors that the Targaryen queen would any day join her fire to their forces, and so Lightbringer would carve dawn from darkness.

But many did not live to see it. They lay very still, men and women who had once been children of summer, covered with white blankets of snow. The ashes were white, rising in the updraft, yet all at once it seemed as if they were falling. The picture was so tranquil it almost seemed right. She mused that the Seven Kingdoms should simply crumble and sleep where they fell. They would know much more peace.

Yet the righteous path was seldom so painless.

The red priestess learned this as she fingered the tattered silk she called a ring. _I don't mind being on my own_ , she told herself, but the words rang hollow. Jon Snow was still waiting, a silent witness. He did not rush her. When she gathered the courage to stroke her king's face, so cold and pale, the words fell as naturally as embers in the night. "You kept your promise," she said. "I will keep mine." Melisandre finally nodded to the solders, and they approached to bring the body to the pyre.

The appropriate prayers were caught in her throat, so she simply stood while he burned. Every breath was a dream of spring, a dream for a time when her heart could beat free from the shackles of duty.

After all, hadn't she long ago abandoned that life — that servitude? _If I'm not free, then what is left of me?_ Her heart pushed the liberating sin further. _Tell him, say it now, before he is ash in the snow..._

And so she did. Even as marriage vows were exchanged in the Stormlands between stag and wolf, trueborn and noble, so she spoke in the dark North, a lowborn queen to her fallen king.

"We come forth today to join our lives, so we may face this world's darkness together. Fill us with fire, my lord."

Her intended remained silent, but his vow was as strong as flame. _I'm on fire,_ she realized absently, glancing down at her finger. His burning ribbon had indeed seared through her own, branding a ring into her pale skin. It pained her, yet it was the only bondage she did not mind.

 _What fire joins, none may put asunder._

"And I do love you," she sighed.

 _For a thousand winters_.

* * *

 _ **To find my other works, including all the explicit stuff I can't publish here — visit**_ archiveofourown(dot org)/users/Adadzio/works


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